Every Season
by Alexandria Malfoy
Summary: They reminded each other of the seasons. A look at Draco and Ginny's relationship.
1. Winter

**A/N- **So I thought I'd try out an idea that's been floating around in my head for quite a while now. This fic is going to be in five parts and each chapter is going to be a different season and a different point in Draco and Ginny's relationship. Thanks to the wonderful Eugenia for the fast beta!

* * *

Every Season – Winter

He stood outside.

His scarf rippled in the wind, cracking like a whip at the ends.

His cheeks burned scarlet from the biting gusts of air, cutting through his lithe frame like his rapier wit.

He looked out across the deadened landscape – the grey slush at his feet, the slate sky above him, the harsh blue glow of the ice-covered flora. His eyes flicked to the only trace of colour in this bleak world, the crimson door the lead to a place he detested.

Satisfied that he was the only occupant of the white garden, he pulled a cigarette out of his cloak pocket, lighting it before taking a drag.

He let the smoke release from his mouth slowly, languidly, relishing in the heat spreading throughout his body.

He had always liked winter. The cold, unforgiving nature of the season left nothing to the imagination; only a crystalline simplicity that sliced through questions and left only answers.

He took another drag on his cigarette.

The click of the lock was the only thing that signalled that he had company.

* * * * * * * * *

He had always reminded her of winter.

She sat on a bed that was not her own, gazing out the window.

Below her was the once green-yellow garden, now covered by a blanket of blue-white.

She spotted him amongst the slate of the snow – a slim figure swathed in black, a curl of smoke rising up to meet her line of vision.

He had come to reside with her and her family some two months ago, amongst the battle cries of war and residual hatred by all parties involved with his entrance into her family's new home.

He was rude, selfish, and cold. Thus, he reminded her of winter. He had tried his best to sequester himself whenever possible – locking himself in his room, not coming down for meals, refusing to coincide with those he was taught to loathe. Yet, she always noticed his absence, but most especially during winter, his favourite season.

She leaned further in to the window, her short puffs of oxygen fogging up the frosted glass.

It was quiet in her room; her eyes flicking from the black-cloaked figure to the lone tree in the garden – a sad sight with its barren, cracked branches; the noise of it all reverberating throughout the small room.

She turned her head, looking at the mahogany door that led to the stairwell.

The bedsprings creaked as she rose from her seated position, the floorboards and door joining in the chorus as she walked out of the room.

Her family was scattered throughout the house, accustomed to the wanderings of others.

She travelled to the back of the house, noticing that the door to the garden was the only one that did not creak.

He didn't even acknowledge her presence as she stood on the veranda.

* * * * * * * *

After five minutes, he took his pack of cigarettes out, offering one to her.

"Fag?" he queried, lifting one out of the flimsy package.

She shook her head, stepping down to stand beside him.

"What are you doing out here?" she posed to him, stuffing her fists into her coat pockets.

"Escaping," he let out with a sigh, watching his breath dissipate in the frigid air.

"I thought you already have?"

"No. Not really," he replied with a dry chuckle.

She grinned at the sound of the roughness in his voice. It spread a warm, tingling sensation throughout her lanky frame that she thought she'd never feel again.

Maybe it was hope?

* * * * * * * *

She discovered that he began to stand outside even more during the winter.

Almost every day, after lunch, she could spot the curl of smoke that signalled his presence.

Sometimes she would join him, sharing a few words, the warmth in her body spreading further each time she made him laugh.

"Do you ever think about the what ifs?" she asked him one day, idly making a snow ball with her mitten-clad hands.

"No. Never."

"Why not? I sometimes do; if there's nothing else to occupy my time."

"I like to think that all of the events in my life thus far, both the good and the bad, have made me a better person. Besides, my what ifs are either unpleasant or, at this point, unattainable."

"I guess you're right; I like you more now that I did last year. You're a much better person than people give you credit for."

He smiled at this. Then suddenly, he began to feel what she felt whenever he smiled or laughed at something she had said or did: that little glimmer of warmth spreading throughout his body.

But he thought it was something else entirely – caring.

* * * * * * * *

She awoke the next morning, Christmas Day, to a strange pressure on her stomach. She lifted her head, eyes aching and threatening to whisk her back to the realm of dreams, to see a book of all things, a bright red bow serving as embellishment.

Dragging an arm out from beneath the warmth of her blanket, she lifted the book up, reading its cover: _One Hundred Years of Solitude_. Carefully, she took the bow off, noting the author's name, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Using both hands, she shifted so her back rested against the cold, wooden headboard, grabbing the book and opening it to the first page.

Written on that first page in a familiar cramped handwriting was, _Thought you might find this interesting. Happy Christmas, DM. _

Immediately, she flipped to the first chapter: _Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. _

An hour later, she awoke from her trance, her mother's voice piercing through the silence, effectively breaking the spell the fledgling town of Macondo had cast on her.

Still in her pyjamas, she raced out of her room, book in hand, coming to a halt right outside of his room, before banging the heel of her palm against his door, shouting for him to open up. There was no response, and again, she heard the shrill cry of her mother's voice emanating from the kitchen, telling her to hurry up so the boys could open their presents.

She knocked one last time, hoping for at least an acknowledgement of her presence, but like before, there was none.

Slightly disheartened, she trudged downstairs, coming to rest beside her father, kissing him on the head, a slurred "Happy Christmas" whispered into his hair.

Her father gave a wan smile in return, an effort to brighten a war-ravaged face.

One of her brothers took her by the crook of her arm, leading her to a spot near the fireplace, wedging her into the middle of the organized chaos.

Her eyes flitted from face to face, genuinely pleased to see the elation from those present, but also disappointed with the lack of the one face she noticed the most; the one that almost always stood out from the others.

Her eyebrows furrowed into a frown, the creases marring her skin.

Abruptly she stood, sprinting up the stairs to his room, an everlasting series of whys fighting for dominance in her increasingly befuddled mind.

Once standing outside his door, she knocked on the hardwood surface, hoping that this time he would answer.

Still nothing.

She grabbed the door knob, wiggling it to see if it was open. It was locked, much to her chagrin.

She ran to her room, scrambling to fetch her wand, when a familiar sight caught her eye.

Rising from below was the tell-tale whisper of smoke rising to her window, signalling her as to where he was hiding.

With a smile, she snuck back downstairs, not wanting to alert her family as to where she was heading.

* * * * * * * * *

He didn't know what compelled him to give her the book.

He found it in the small library he was currently making his way through. It was the first book he picked up when he first chanced upon the library one lazy Sunday; he chose it because he identified with the title. The more he read it, the more he liked it; and the more he got to know her, the more he realized how much he liked her, and how much she would like the book.

He had bought the book on one of the rare days they were allowed to leave the house.

He found an old leather-bound copy somewhere in the back of Flourish and Blotts, cramped on the shelves with the other Muggle books in that area. It had cost him close to nothing, which was perfect for him, since close to nothing was what he had then.

He found the ribbon in the house. He had nothing to do the day after he purchased the book, and so he was stuck traipsing about the house, trying to come up with something interesting to do. He stumbled upon the family tree, grimacing at his fabric self, but happy to see a ribbon peeling off the wall near his mother's name.

He knelt down, taking hold of the red satin strip and slowly began peeling it off the wall, taking care to not rip it or fray it.

Once he felt that he had enough of the ribbon to create a bow for her present, he left, running back to his room to wrap the book up.

And now he finds himself outside -- running away from her incessant knocking, hoping that he won't have to join the melee that is unwrapping Christmas presents with her family.

* * * * * * * *

"I had a feeling I'd find you out here," she announced with a smirk.

"What do you want?" he asked, flicking his cigarette to the ground, watching the red spark fade to gray.

He's cold now, like winter, but she's used to this type of treatment and it does not faze her.

"I wanted to thank you for my gift. It was very thoughtful of you."

"You're welcome," he replied, turning his head to the side so she can now see his sharp profile.

"I feel bad now, though," she began, stepping down so she's beside him on the stone steps, "because I don't have anything to give you for Christmas."

"Don't worry about it," he answered brusquely, suddenly feeling cold for the first time since he went outside. The warm feeling she normally gives him is fading fast now, but yet, he tries to hold on to the last dregs of it; holding steady onto the bits of thread left, not caring that they're fraying away.

She doesn't know what to say and she just stands there, looking down at her boots, her cheeks reddening from a mixture of the cold and embarrassment. It gives him time to think.

What was he expecting? She doesn't consider him as friend. More like an acquaintance that she's been forced to deal with on a daily basis. He knew giving her the book was a bad idea. But that spark – that little bit of warmth he feels whenever he's around her – it must count for something. He knew she was slowly thawing away the cold in him and he let her. He was tired of keeping up appearances simply because he had to; he was tired of being indifferent.

"But even if I did plan on getting you something," she chirped, raising her head, "I have a feeling that it wouldn't be something you would like. You had everything growing up. What could I possibly give to you that you don't already own?"

"A friend," he breathed, turning to face her.

"What?" she responded, her eyebrows scrunching in disbelief. "I thought you had friends."

"But not like you. You're not pretentious, you're not constantly plotting something behind my back, you're not only friends with me because of my connections; you just like me. I don't know why, but I think you do. Do you?"

She looked away. Was she really his friend? After all of the bad experiences she's had with him, can she really consider this boy her friend? And then she remembers back to one of their outdoor conversations in the snow – _I like you more now than I did last year. You're a much better person than people give you credit for._ And she was right; he was, is a much better person now that in years previous. Many are unable to tolerate the cold, but she welcomes it; he soothes the raging fire within her, but she is still able to retain the warmth, and that's all she can ask for.

He noticed her smile first as she looked away from him; the small crinkles near her eyes, her one dimple in her right cheek, the way her eyes light up and seem less like a chocolate brown and morph into a deep amber.

She turned to him, her smile still intact. "Yes, I do like you and I am more than happy to consider you a friend."

Suddenly, the weak strings of warmth bind together, creating a strong bond that shoots out throughout his whole frame, and he smiles, too, revelling in the warmth. He is no longer cold.

Her smile grows upon seeing his as the same feeling begins to make its way through her body.

The pair is caught off guard as the crimson door behind them opened, revealing her mother.

"Ginny! Draco! There you two are! We've been looking for the pair of you all morning. Let's get out of this cold, dearies; you both have Christmas presents that are just begging to be opened," Molly Weasley chided with a smile. "Ginny, you, especially might want to hurry up before the twins figure out some way to fool around with your gifts, if they haven't already."

"I guess I have presents after all," Draco announced to no one in particular, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Of course you would!" Molly replied, slightly scandalized. "You have just as much of a right to get presents from the Weasleys and _others _as anybody else," she finished, giving Draco a significant look.

His eyes widened in surprise. But how could they have possibly sent anything here without the Dark Lord knowing? And why would the Order willingly give their location away to his parents?

Molly read his thoughts. "Severus delivered them, dear. We didn't want to put your parents in danger. No matter how much we don't agree with their political viewpoints, it _is_ Christmas, and they are your parents; you deserve a bit of happiness, too," she stated with a smile.

He turned to Ginny. "Did you know about all of this?"

"I was the one who convinced Snape, who then proceeded to convince your parents that, while you may be here, they can still share a bit of the hols with you. We figured retrieving your Christmas presents might be our safest bet," Ginny replied with a smirk.

She squeaked when he lunged to hug her, catching her completely off guard. She relaxed after a moment, wrapping her arms around him to return the hug.

"Thank you so much," he whispered. "You have given the best gift I could possibly ask for at this moment in time: reassurance that my parents are still alive."

She unravels herself from his hold, grabbing him by the wrist. "Well, come on; we still have gifts to open!"

He catches another glimpse of the backyard as she pulls him inside. It's snowing.

* * *

**A/N- **Thanks for reading! Please review. :D


	2. Spring

**A/N- **Thanks, as always to my lovely beta, Eugenia. Also, a big heaping thanks to my friends, Lisa and Paulina, for their overwhelming enthusiasm for my two current WIPs.

Every Season – Spring

It was over.

Five months later, the Second War against Voldemort was finally over.

She looked out the window, her breath no longer fogging up the glass, and it hadn't for quite a while. The window, itself, was no longer frosted, or somewhat hindering her line of vision; now it was crystal clear, with the occasional watermark from where residual raindrops hadn't quite rolled down the window's surface.

The garden was full of life. The grass below was a deep, lush, verdant green; no sign of yellow anywhere on the small patch of earth. If there _was_ a glimmer of yellow present in the garden, it was due to the flowers lining the fence – clumps of chrysanthemums, roses, orchids, and other various species of flower bloomed in all sorts of colours, mirroring the elation of the wizarding world as they feted Voldemort's eradication. The lone tree near the back was reborn, getting stronger with each passing day as new patches of green, silky leaves made themselves known to the world.

It was a sight to behold and Ginny felt she could gaze for hours on end at the glory that was the backyard at 12 Grimmauld Place. Suddenly, a rush of white flew past her window in the form of petals from a neighbouring tree that had released its flowers, allowing them to scatter in the wind. The flurry of creamy white reminded her of the first snow fall from last November, and subconsciously, she began to seek out that familiar cloud of grey smoke making its steady climb toward her window.

Her eyes drifted for a moment, and then, she found it. Cutting through the petals, announcing to her that he was still here, after all this time.

As she walked downstairs to meet him, she thought about that little cloud of silver smoke and his penchant for smoking. If it weren't for that, she wouldn't have gone down to see him that first time last winter. She might have to thank Draco for his habit one day.

* * * * * * * *

"You're going to kill yourself one day."

"Yes, and when I do, I'll allow you to be the first one to hover over my corpse as you sing 'I told you so'," Draco replied, smirking, as he blew a ring of smoke in Ginny's face.

She coughed, waving the toxic cloud away from her face, revealing her slight frown.

"You shouldn't be joking about death, Draco. We just finished a war," she admonished, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Exactly. No more deaths," the blond boy next to Ginny said before taking a drag on his dwindling cigarette. "So I don't see any problem with my joke." He flicked the cigarette to the ground, laughing as she quickly put the small butt out with the toe of her right foot, shooting him a glare as he calmed down.

"What have I told you about leaving your cigarette butts out here in the garden?" Ginny snapped, cleaning up the smouldering ashes with her wand. "We finally got this garden back to the state that it was in before the war and we'd like to keep it that way." She ended her speech by slapping Draco on the arm for his mimicking of her the entire time in a ridiculously high falsetto. He had heard her speech more times that he could count. "You're not very nice," Ginny said with an even more pronounced frown.

"I never claimed to be nice."

"Seriously, Draco, I put a lot of time and effort into this garden. My mum did, too. So I'm just a bit overprotective."

"I know, I know, _Mum_. Come on, though; the war's over, Voldemort's been dead for about two weeks. You need to acknowledge that he's finally gone. It's okay to live life now."

Ginny massaged her temples, sighing as she did so. "I don't know, Draco," she began, wrapping her arms around her waist, rubbing her back. She turned away from him, crouching down to sit on the worn concrete steps.

"What's to question, Ginny?" Draco asked, sitting down beside her, resting his arms against his knees.

She turned to him, almost hesitantly, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to formulate a response. "I've become so accustomed to living with the fear that I don't know what to do now that he's really gone."

"But you never had the fear your entire life. It wasn't until my first year that you really had something to fear. So think back; think back to the days when the war was the last thing on your mind, when you had no worries, and everything just disappeared as you revelled in simply living life." Ginny closed her eyes, relaxing her face as she did what Draco directed of her. "Once you find that emotion, then you'll be able to live without the fear."

* * * * * * * *

In his eyes, she was an eternal spring.

She had a suffused warmth about her that reminded him of spring – she is warm, with tendrils of ice at the beginning, just like the calendar year's first season. Spring is cool at first, bravely arriving to ward off the constant chill of winter. And she, too, was cold to him when he first arrived, but soon enough, she warmed to his icy demeanour, eventually thawing him, much like spring does to winter. She is no longer cold towards him, and although he is not used to it, it is what he needed, and that's all he can ask for.

She visits him more and more now. He's accustomed to their after-lunch ritual – after helping her mother with the dishes, she finds him outside, either on the veranda, or, since it's now warm enough to do so, underneath the blossoming tree in the back garden.

She has come alive with the change of season, relishing each day without the presence of stark white snow. To her, spring is rebirth; a chance for the world to prove that it belongs, that it has the strength to persevere, even in the face of death. Because of this, spring is her favourite season.

* * * * * * * *

He finds her outside, sitting under the sprawling tree in the back garden, eyes glued to the book in front of her as she turns a page. He can't help the swell of pride, or the warmth bubbling in his chest as he realizes that it is his Christmas present to her.

He takes off his blazer, setting it flat on the grass at her feet before sitting down on it, not wanting to get grass stains on his new pants.

"Ginny, I have to talk to you."

"Hold on; let me just finish this sentence," the ginger-haired girl in front of him replied, chewing on her bottom lip before switching to her left thumbnail. She laughs at passage from the book as she closes it, setting it down beside her. "Okay, what did you want to talk about?"

"You're still reading that book? It's been almost six months." He attempts to ease into what he's about to tell her; cushioning it with polite conversation.

"Well, I've been rather busy lately, so I couldn't dedicate as much time to it as I would like. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Ah, no; I have something else to tell you. I'm – I am..." He trails off, nervous as to what her reaction might be. _Oh, just tell her already, Draco!_ he screams mentally, finding his nerves to suddenly seem superfluous. "I'm leaving Headquarters, Ginny. I'm going back home to Malfoy Manor."

She doesn't say anything, and he wonders if she's even paying attention to him. "Ginny? Did you even hear what I said?"

She shakes her head, clearing it of any untoward thoughts regarding his announcement. "Yeah, that's fantastic, Draco," she forces out, grabbing her book, standing up with the help of the tree trunk. "I, uh, have to go inside now. I just remembered that I have to help my mum with something around the house." And she's inside before he has a chance to utter one syllable to her.

And like so many times in their hectic friendship, the warmth begins to fade. He lifts the blazer out from beneath him and shoves it on, not caring about the grass stains. He shivers involuntarily, shifting to sit in the space she once occupied. He pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging them tight as he lets his head drop with a _thunk_ against his knee caps. It hurts, but he could care less at this point.

_Why does this always happen to me? _

* * * * * * * *

She collapses on her stomach on her bed, a dry, heavy sob wracking her system. She doesn't cry, she can't; it seems silly for her to even think about crying over something like this.

She knew this day would come -- the day when he had to leave Headquarters for his ancestral home. She had resigned herself to that fact his first day at 12 Grimmauld Place. But it still doesn't change the fact that her pain is still palpable.

Ever since that first Christmas with him five months ago, something between them had changed dramatically. It wasn't an agreement, necessarily, for they had reached that point the first time that she had found him on the veranda. No, now it was a cognitive caring for each other, where their friendship meant something more than convenience. The threads of warmth she felt whenever she was around him proved that.

He was there for her when others were unable to. They protected each other in those last days of war, putting on brave faces when they went into battle, sticking close to one another as they fought off their foes, exchanging witticisms with every tossed hex. They owed their lives to each other, one saving the other on countless occasions, for when it seemed as though their end was near, one of them would swoop in to the rescue.

Their friendship left her family baffled. Ron, especially, was unable to comprehend how his sister, full of sweetness and light, was able to associate with a Malfoy of all people. They shared looks when they thought no one was looking; knowing, amused looks that flitted across their faces anytime they were in a room with other people, looks that showed how much they were in their own world, and shared the same opinion on certain matters.

Molly, of course, noticed, and found it positively adorable. She indulged in a secretive smile anytime she caught their covert looks, their identical smirks as they revelled in a joke that only the two former enemies knew. Over his tenure at the Order's headquarters, she had grown rather fond of the Malfoy boy, taking pleasure in his friendship with her youngest and only daughter. He was no longer closed off from the rest of the world, but now engaged Molly in conversations of his own free will, or helped her out in the kitchen with a broad smile on his face. While they claimed that their relationship was purely platonic, Molly secretly hoped that Ginny would wake up one day and see what a beautiful boy she had in front of her, and that Draco would do the same. She had long ago given up the hope that Harry married her Ginny, legally making him a part of her already large family. But then she would look at Draco and Ginny and very nearly scoffed at the memories of how little chemistry her daughter and Harry had. Ron still insisted that Ginny and Harry try to make it work, but it was done on the false hope that his friend would fall arse over teakettle in love with his sister. He still couldn't grasp the fact that both Harry and Ginny has gotten over one another a long time ago.

Ginny's sobs pass, and she turned to her side, grabbing one of her pillows to bring it to her chest for a hug.

Next to Luna and Neville, Draco had permanently engraved himself onto her list of best friends. They became close rather quickly, the war forcing them to learn how to fight alongside each other. As they talked more and more, they began to share similar quirks: the smirk, the glare, that weird sense of humour that only they seemed to understand. Her brothers weren't like that. Maybe Fred and George were, but they weren't around her as often during the war as Draco was. They kept each other sane and safe as they battled Voldemort's army, and she almost regretted the fact that Harry killed the Dark Lord. Now that Voldemort was gone, her subconscious slowly began to remind her that one day Draco was going to leave 12 Grimmauld Place.

And she was nowhere near ready for that day.

* * * * * * * *

He felt horrible for letting Ginny know that he was going home. Which was odd, because he shouldn't have. _He was going home._ It wasn't like he was leaving her forever. They could still keep in touch, she could visit him, and vice versa. But the more he thought about it, the more he felt like a total wanker for letting her know.

They had come to rely on each other so much throughout the war for a myriad of things: emotional support, intelligent conversation, and, most importantly, life support. He was forever to be in her debt for saving his pasty arse more times than he could count.

The threads binding them together seemed frayed now as he sensed what her reaction might be. The warmth was still there, but it wasn't as strong as it was during their time in battle, and he grew disheartened for he had relied on that warmth these past five months.

Getting up, he runs upstairs to her room, frowning as he sees her lying on her bed, a pillow encased in her arms.

"Gin?"

She looked up to see who spoke to her, releasing the pillow and placing it by her side. "Oh, hi, Draco. What's up?" She tries to sound cheerful, but her fidgeting belies her tone.

"Are you okay? You know, with me going home and all?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. Why wouldn't I be? You finally get to go home! You can see your parents again! I'm so happy for you!" She laughs, maybe a little too loudly, and he almost believes her, but he knows her better than she thinks.

"Are you positive?" he asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I mean, it's not like we'll never see each other again, right? We can always visit one another."

He shook his head slightly, imperceptive to her eyes, as he relives his thoughts coming from her mouth.

"Right, of course we can. Well, I need to go pack, so I'll see you before I leave. Okay?"

She nodded, biting down on her lower lip, something he regards as a nervous twitch of hers, as he backed out her room, closing the door behind him.

* * * * * * * *

His parents came to collect him in the middle of the night, as she slept peacefully in her bed. He does not know why they come this late, nor do they give him an explanation. Truthfully, he's too excited to believe that they're alive to even care about a formality like what time they fetch him.

He left her no note, and does not stop by to bit her farewell.

As a tearful Molly Weasley wraps Draco in one last hug, Narcissa opens the front door to her former home, pulling her sapphire blue hood over her head to cover her hair from the weather outside. Draco turns away from Molly with a reluctant smile, walking to join his mother and father.

The weather outside is deceitful to the season, deceitful to his opinion of Ginny.

A flash of lightning lights up the entire night sky, and he's gone. It's raining.

**A/N- **Thanks for reading! Please review. :D


	3. Summer

Every Season – Summer

She was royally pissed.

And, frankly, he couldn't blame her.

When he had woken up for the first time in over a year at the Manor, he was immediately accosted by his house elf, Fizzy, informing him that he had a visitor waiting outside of his door.

Curious, he allowed the small creature to grant this visitor entrance, but before Fizzy had reached the double doors of his room, she threw the doors open, stomping over to his bed with a gleam in her eye that did not bode well for his person. She was still pyjama-clad, and her hair frizzed around her forehead; the rest of it was done up in a messy ponytail, though her baby hairs hung down and draped the nape of her neck.

Fizzy squeaked in fear and Apparated on the spot, lest she get caught in the red-headed girl's fit of rage.

He was surprised that she was here. After all, he told her just the other day that his parents were going to 12 Grimmauld Place to fetch him. He knew she was upset about it when he told her; her mannerisms always gave away the hidden meaning behind words, something that he was taught to hide. So he couldn't comprehend why she was here, in his bedroom, looking as though she were about to kill him.

She halted once she was in front of his bed, glaring at him with all of the verve and vigour in her slender frame. He opened his mouth to speak, hoping to find out the reason as to why she disturbed him so early in the morning, but was effectively silenced as her hand found purchase on his cheek, leaving a bright crimson mark as the blood in his face rushed to that particular spot; the now hypersensitive area glowing in the shape of her hand.

It was with that slap that he remembered; an epiphany of sorts.

He forgot to say good-bye. He told her that he was, and like some pig-headed berk, he forgot to say good-bye. In that moment, he felt like a total asshole. She had done so much for him over the course of the war, not to mention the fact that she had become one of the first true friends he'd had in ages, and he figured that what he had done to her was akin to a slap in the face for all of her efforts the past few months. She was only returning the favour in a more physical sense.

Satisfied with the look of shock on his face, she walked out, returning to her bed back at her new home to spend the rest of the morning wiping her tears away; crying over his sudden revert back to his Hogwarts self.

* * * * * * * *

Their friendship was like summer.

For many, summer represents freedom -- a life with limited restriction, only the simple need to relax and live life to the fullest before submitting to the daily grind with the next change in season. In nature, though, summer can be an amalgamation of different weather patterns. In certain parts of the world, summer brings torrential rains, rains that can flood entire cities and ruin homes; destroying entire lives.

For them, it was a combination of both.

His abrupt departure from her day to day life affected her more than she would like to admit. He was there when there was no one to talk to, no one who would listen to her somewhat philosophical ramblings.

She was back at 12 Grimmauld Place, gazing out the window to see a brutal storm unleash itself on London. She smiled faintly, relishing in the fact that Mother Nature was just as upset as she was.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on top; a familiar position that always seemed to bring comfort and help her sort through her colliding thoughts. She had every right to be upset -- maybe not to the extent that she actually was, but he did tell her that he would say good-bye to her when he went back home with his parents. And maybe she should have let him explain himself to her; give her a truly valid reason to act the way she did that morning. But the more she thought about it, the more that she found that she didn't really care about his reasons.

Her reasoning was illogical. Like some red, pulsating thing deep within her body that caused her to react the way she did. The strings were still there, sure, but now; now there was something else guiding her thought process when it came to him.

Was it love?

* * * * * * * *

That was two years ago.

Two years ago to the day since that last particular incident. Since she stormed into his room, hell bent on beating the ever-loving shite out of him for leaving without saying good-bye.

He felt the strangest sense of déjà vu, not just because of the setting (his bedroom at the Manor), but because he felt that, again, he really couldn't blame her for her anger.

But, unlike last time, he was prepared. He was not going to stand by while she either physically or verbally abused him (or sometimes, a combination of both, depending on her mood) in retribution for whatever idiotic thing he had done to earn such treatment.

And so, when she stormed in that morning, she found him not lounging in bed, but seated by the balcony, reading the morning paper as he sipped on a cup of tea.

"You know, I have the feeling that we've been in this situation before," he announced, calming folding his paper and placing it on the table in front of him, never turning to see her look of absolute frustration.

"I can't help it if you're prone to do monumentally stupid things," she huffed, crossing her arms over her pyjama-clad chest.

"What seems to be the problem this time, Ginny? As you know, I am a very busy man with a schedule to keep." He knew he was playing with fire. He spoke with the cool, indifferent tone of voice that always sent her over the edge. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, his day was that much brighter whenever he sent her anger over the edge – it made her all the more appealing to him.

She snatched the paper off of his breakfast table, flipping at a rather fastidious rate to the gossip section of The Daily Prophet. Satisfied that she had found the appropriate page, she folded it before shoving it in his face, a finger pointed at the girl in the picture. "_Her_, Draco? Of all of the eligible bachelorettes in the wizarding world, you decided to pick Astoria Greengrass? And as your fiancée, no less?" Ginny screeched the last part, causing Draco to wince.

"Jealous?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Ginny quickly took a step back, affronted. "Of Astoria Greengrass? Hm...let me think about that...um, no."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I'm just saying that you could have picked someone better, is all. You deserve better," Ginny replied, sounding slightly resigned. "I'm leaving. It was nice chatting with you."

She Apparated before he had the chance to reply.

* * * * * * * *

She was in love.

Ginny Weasley was arse over teakettle in love. With someone she couldn't have.

Of all the people in the wizarding world to fall so madly in love with, it had to be him. It couldn't have been Harry, or Dean, or Blaise, or any other guy she had previously been with. No, it had to be him. It had to be Draco sodding Malfoy. And to make matters worse, she had to wake up that morning to the glorious headline in the Prophet announcing his engagement to Daphne Greengrass's younger sister, Astoria. Fan-bloody-tastic.

So when she Apparated to the Manor to confront him, determined to tell him how she felt about him, come hell or high water, she lied; played his comments off as though her heart wasn't being shattered into neat little fragments. She couldn't help it – he's her best friend, and she would do anything to see him happy, even if it meant finding his happiness with someone other than her.

And it wasn't as though her romantic love for him was a recent development. It had been going on strong for two years. Two years to the day. What had started off as some passing summer crush had morphed into a full-scale, dreamy-kind of love for him. It also didn't help that he came to her for advice on how to woo his of-the-moment flame. So like a good friend (and Gryffindor, to a lesser extent), she complied with his wishes, doing reconnaissance when the occasion called for it, or helping him pick out the perfect set of matching earrings and necklace, all the while praying that one day he would see in her what she saw in him.

* * * * * * * *

Something was wrong.

Not that everything was perfect in his turbulent friendship with Ginny, but she seemed a bit...off when she entered his bedroom that morning. He was used to her disapproving of his choice in women; it was rare, in fact, for her to even agree to the women he introduced to her. This morning, though, there was just something strange in the way she reacted to him choosing Astoria. He supposed he should have told her before he announced it to the world, maybe ask for her advice or thoughts on the situation, but he couldn't live his married life like that. What husband goes to a female best friend for advice when he has a wife for that?

Not only that, but she normally gave as good as she got. They would often spend hours just going back and forth before their argument disappeared without warning. But when he baited her, she seemed resigned, and if there was one thing Draco Malfoy knew for certain in this world, it was that Ginny Weasley was not a quitter. It was so unlike her to not rise to his bait.

He didn't think Astoria was the reason either. He found her to be a perfectly reasonable choice for a potential wife – she's intelligent, well-spoken, beautiful, not to mention a rather tasteful dresser. She was blunt, but not overtly so, and would usually give Draco the what for if he screwed up. It was the longest he ever stayed with a girl, and they suited each other well. It only made sense for him to propose.

* * * * * * * *

She awoke the next morning to a raging headache and the insistent pecking of an eagle owl at her bedroom window.

Ginny rolled over and, not realizing her proximity to the edge of her bed, fell over onto the floor in a mass of sheets and pillows.

She let out a whinge, cursing the benevolent beings above for their idea of humour, as she slowly rose to her feet, opening the window to allow the owl entrance.

It perched on her headboard, sticking its leg out for Ginny to grab the letter wedged in its talons.

She opened it and quickly grabbed her wand from the nightstand, setting fire to the short missive. She walked over to the desk in the corner of the room, pulling a blank envelope out of a stack, dumped the ashes of the other letter inside and sealed it. Handing the envelope to the owl, she shooed it out, sending it back to its blond owner.

* * * * * * * *

Draco watched as his eagle owl swooped back into his office, excited to see Ginny's reply.

He ripped open to envelope only to watch in shock as the ashes of his letter floated to the glossy surface of his desk.

She always had to make things difficult.

* * * * * * * *

After a month or so of trying to contact her in hopes of setting up a meeting with the stubborn witch he called his best friend, he gave up, instead deciding to do things the old fashioned way and just visit her in person.

He arrived at her apartment complex on the north side of Diagon Alley, right before the Business District, just as the sky began to turn a slate grey as storm clouds moved into the area. A flash of lightning in the distance caught his attention and he went inside just as the thunder was able to catch up.

He knocked on the door to Ginny's apartment several times, praying to the gods that she was home.

She opened the door after five minutes, dressed in a pair of torn-at-the-knees denim pants and an oversize tee shirt. "What do you want?"

"I can't visit my best friend anymore?" He tried pouting a little. Pouting usually got her every time. She raised an eyebrow in suspicion. Apparently, not this time.

"You're full of shit, but come on in anyways. Merlin knows how long this visit will take." She stepped aside to allow him entrance, plopping down on the sofa near her kitchen, stretching her arms over her head languidly.

Draco stepped around the discarded take-out boxes and pints of ice cream, frowning at the sight. Ginny never kept her place in such a bad state. It was always in impeccable condition. He sat down in what looked like a padded chair with a sweatshirt strewn across the back.

"What's wrong with you lately?" he asked after watching her cross her legs over one another in an effort to become more comfortable.

"Nothing's wrong with me. Everything's just wonderful."

"That's a load of bullshit, Ginny, and you know it. Just look at your place. I've never seen it like this. And you don't even talk to me anymore. We used to see each other almost every day, and now, I'm lucky if I hear something about you from others. None of your co-workers at the Ministry will say anything to me, and anytime I try to contact your family I get no response. Your mum loves me! I can always get her to talk to me, but every time I've tried in the past month, she's never available. Something's up, Ginny, and I want to know what it is."

Ginny bit her lower lip, looking down at her hands in her lap. She could feel the tears pooling in her eyes. She didn't want to cry in front of him, it seemed so stupid when she already cried over him too much before.

Before she knew what was going on, he was kneeling in front of her, lifting her head by her chin.

"I'm sorry, Draco, but I can't. Please leave." She shifted out of his grasp, running to her room.

Hearing the door of her bedroom slam, he sighed, getting up off the floor, before walking to her bedroom. He heard her crying on the other side, and pressed his ear to the wooden door.

"I ended the engagement with Astoria."

He can't tell her reaction, but leaves anyway, walking out the door to her apartment just in time for the rain to fall.

He pulls the hood of his cloak up over his head, wrapping it around him to prevent his clothes from getting soaked.

He sets off down the street before he hears his name.

"Draco!"

He turns around to see Ginny running toward him at breakneck speed, her clothes clinging to her body, making him notice that she gained a bit of weight, too.

She nearly skids to a halt in front of him, not caring about the fact that it's raining and that she might get sick; she just has to confirm one thing from him.

"Is it true?"

"Is what true? And what are you doing out here without a cloak! You're going to get sick."

"Is what you said about you ending your engagement true? And I could care less about getting sick right now."

"Yes, it's true. Now get back inside before I have to carry you there."

"Hold on; I just need to say something to you." She paused, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. "I'm in love with you," she announced with an unsure smile and a shrug, happy to have finally told him.

He doesn't say anything for a minute or so, causing her to shift nervously from one foot to the other.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything? I just told you that --" She was cut off by his lips crashing down on hers, his arms snaking around her waist, pulling her in for a possessive embrace.

He breaks away, laughing at the dreamy smile gracing her features. "That's why I broke off the engagement. I've been too much of an idiot these past years to see what has been in front of me this entire time."

She laughs as he lowers he head down for another kiss; a more gentle, caressing, and languid kiss than the one previous. She looks up before she's consumed by the sensations, smiling against his lips. It is no longer raining. A ray of sunlight has broken through.


End file.
